


Put Me On Your Pillow

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Injuries, Slow Build, Stanley Cup Finals, dammit Jim I'm a writer not a doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2001 hasn't been a great year for Peter or Markus. When Peter's spleen ruptures at a crucial point in the playoffs Markus arrives in Denver to help take care of him. They both miss their teams, and each other, a little more than they expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Me On Your Pillow

You're so kind  
You rescued me when I was blind  
And you put me on your pillow  
When I was on the wall

-Paul Simon, "You're Kind"

  
\\\

When Markus first got hurt in March Peter had every intention of going to see him. At some point. March is always hectic for obvious reasons, and he can't get away with just leaping onto a plane and flying out to Vancouver because _games_ and also _Vancouver_.

It's not like he misses Markus's voice, or anything.

He knows Markus gets it; when Peter's ribs took him out earlier in the year Markus had called with condolences and conversation but never attempted anything else. There's an understanding between them as hockey players that at least once a season one of them is gonna be laid on his ass, because that's how the game is. So this time around it's Peter who calls him as often as he can, which sometimes feels like a weak tradeoff even though it's all of what he has. Markus can't manage a trip and Peter won't abandon his team so they talk when they have a moment and then make what plans they can when it becomes clear the Avalanche are going to take on the Canucks first round. It ends up being nothing more than vague suggestions of a talk after the game, and probably some goodhearted ribbing about his limp, but they don't need more than that.

When everything comes to an end the handshake line in Vancouver is quiet and slow, a stark contrast to how they played, and in direct conflict with the roars of the home crowd. They were hostile the whole series and not likely to relent, even after the sweep.

Peter shakes hands with the Canucks, notices the gap in their lineup for the umpteenth time and doesn't say anything about it. It's not like there's much he can say; he might be Markus's friend but Markus is their captain and they certainly feel his absence a thousand times worse than he does. Instead it's all about pressing palms, accepting the strains of disappointed "Congratulations" and sometimes offering a heartfelt "Thank you" of his own. The sincerity is grudging, but it's there. They really mean it, and he accepts it with dignity. It's nearly impossible, in moments like this, to forget that the other team is going home, that it could be them, and even in victory it's solemn.

Everyone is wishing Ray the best on their way past. Peter can see the way their disappointment vanishes for a moment when they finally get to his side. It's nothing more or less than what he expected — they don't actually dislike the guy because, opposing team or not, he's _Ray_. Big and generous and big hearted as well, impossible to resist in the way of thunderstorms or hurricanes.

Peter hangs back, watches beleaguered and bloody toothed players — hardnosed defensemen and forwards all — suddenly remember what it's like to be a fan of the game when they speak to him. Faces lighten for a second and it's something he feels strangely privileged to see, even at a distance down the line.

Ray is tired of it, though he'd never admit as much. It looks too much like ingratitude for what is, at its heart, genuine goodwill. There's no doubt that every single Canuck means it when they tell him, with a firm grip, "Since it can't be ours, I want it to be yours." It's a good story, one that seems like it must have been created out of an overheated imagination, designed to sell newspapers.

Afterwards, Peter dresses quickly, because Joe has given him permission for this before they fly out and he doesn't want to take advantage of the generosity. He's first in the showers, first into the pressed suit he's hung carefully in his locker, first out the door before the press can properly mass.

He wonders if Markus will hear it in his voice, see it on his face, when he finally makes it to the press box. He's not here to gloat, he's here because of Markus and he ignores the looks that try to imply the opposite as he walks. There are some rather fascinating expressions as he navigates the hallways but Peter's finally got all his limbs together and in good working order. If anyone's going to be dragging their ass through half the building it should be him, and that's fine. Gracious in victory or something like that. Even though Markus’s team had done their best to stand against the inevitable that changes nothing once the game is over.

The Avalanche have the weight of destiny, or something that passes for it, on their side. Mostly it's that they have sheer bloody mindedness coupled with Patrick Roy and Joe Sakic on their side but in this game that's as close to _destiny_ as you can reasonably expect to get.

When he finally gets there (and fuck, did they deliberately design the most circuitous path, or did Markus just tell him the longest one because he's a dick?) he's gotten his share of looks, congratulations, and a few shoulder slaps. It feels good to get away, push the door open with the certain knowledge Markus will be there.

Peter has no right to be in their locker room, not after a loss and not as a rival, so Markus will be waiting for him in the press box because he is Markus, and he is Peter. That's how they work.

"I'm sorry," he starts as he makes his way in, ignoring everyone and speaking only to Markus. If there's any reactions he doesn't notice them, focusing on his friend who's slowly turning in his chair to face him. He doesn't get any further before Markus is interrupting, snorting out the most disgusting sound he's ever heard him make. And that's impressive, considering that they were teenagers together.

"No, you're not." He's rising out of his chair with difficulty, leg held in a complicated contraption of compression and braces that makes even basic movements awkward and halting. It's only been a few days since they last saw each other and Peter should be getting used to this. But seeing him hurt when normally Peter is the damaged one is still strange; it's very nearly unsettling. Markus is an athlete, and far more coordinated than most would be in his position, but for someone so known for fluid and graceful motion even those little hitches are jarring. Years of ribbing back and forth, trading injuries, have also ensured that it's hilarious. That's why Peter lets him struggle for a moment longer before coming over, pushing Markus back into his seat with a grunt and a swat for his troubles.

"I never like beating an invalid," Peter murmurs.

"You didn't; I wasn't down there. If I was you never would have made it past Game 2."

There's something inside Peter's chest that goes all sideways and wobbly when he bites back a laugh. "Wrong side of town, Macke . . ."

Markus continues from his chair, waving his arms and looking for all the world like a great, injured mystic in a questionable tie, dispensing wisdom for the ages. "You want to win as bad as I want to win. If we get in each other's way someone has to go home. It's business." He prods Peter in the chest.

He shouldn't, but "You want help packing?" slips out, and this time it's Markus who laughs. Peter wonders absently if he gets the same painful, weak feeling in his stomach when he does.

"You're an asshole, Peter Forsberg. I expect you to be too busy advancing to do anything to me beyond kicking us out." He's grinning, all sharp and dangerous like an unrestrained scalpel. "That OT winner in Game 3 was a thing of beauty." He mentions it like an afterthought, even though Peter knows he watches these things.

"I was glad to help the team." It's something he'll never lose, deflecting even Markus's compliments with modesty.

"About damn time you snapped that drought, but did you have to do it then?"

The pseudo bow happens without a conscious decision and Markus slaps him on the back of the head on his way up.

"I'll see you back home," he starts again, then hesitates, hand landing awkwardly on Markus's shoulder and gripping there. "When this is all over."

"Not too soon, okay?" And that's how Marcus is, gracious and concerned.

"No, not too soon," Peter promises with a little laugh, and he misses this. Misses joking and touching, which they can't when they're rivals. Not during the season and especially not when it's down to the wire and one of them has to go home. They're rivals at heart, still the kids from different teams who somehow fell into a line together and clicked. Friends, always, but they know how to play against each other as well as they know how to play the same line. There is empathy but never compassion in those moments. It's safe to say only now, when Peter is moving forward while Markus takes his time to heal, knit his bones and prepare for next year.

And then, because Markus is who he is, he says "My team needs me right now. You'll tell Ray that I wish him all the best?"

He will — of course he will. Raymond has grown tired of the circus, but he's far too kind to ever turn aside good will. Ray doesn't know Markus well, but the two share a common dignity Peter thinks would make them good friends if the moment ever arose. "I'd be glad to," he finds himself saying after a pause that stretches a moment too long. There's nothing he'd trade this moment for, but already he's _tired_.

The season was long, but they don't have the luxury of being tired yet.

He feels wrong keeping Markus from the locker room, from his team that needs their captain right now. Sometimes he misses him so intensely that he can almost taste it, the gap where he should have been on the ice red hot, leaving puddles and the naked skin of paint and rink behind, but laying claim to his time at this exact moment is nothing but selfish. Peter is one of the only people in the world, behind Lotta and the children, that Markus will ask his team to wait for, and he knows it. He can't bring himself to take advantage of that no matter how much they've missed each other this season.

This time he allows Markus to scramble to his feet, takes his weight as they hug — faces pressed into each other's necks — and only lets go once Markus allows it. He pats Peter's back, pulls away and looks into his eyes, face serious.

" _Win_ , Peter."

He bumps their foreheads together, anxiety momentarily knotting his stomach again. "We will."

It's simple and absurdly difficult.

Peter sleeps raggedly that night, frayed at the edges and up early to fly back home to face the Kings. Dan throws him a one armed hug as they leave the hotel, tactile like he has always been. Peter grumbles as he leans into it, grateful and appalled that he needs it.

This series it's Rob's turn in the hot seat, like a round robin of scrutiny, looking more nervous than thoughtful and a tiny bit unsure.

He can see Rob beginning to twist up with it, running himself to loose ends inside his own head as he preps as best as he can. Ray's there, because Ray is always there for his d-partners. He jostles Rob's shoulder any time he looks like he's sinking too far into his head, offering to play poker or go over plays or maybe rehearse for the inevitable descending media storm this is sure to become if they pull it off. The closer they get the more eyes turn to them, the more people start to really pay attention.

It's true even from within the team. From his spot next to Milan Peter can see Joe watching them over the edge of his ragged paperback. Always ready if they need him, always prepared to step in for whatever, but Ray's handling it like a master. He's used to being there for his team. Rob's not used to being the person someone has to be there for, but he's human and it's only a matter of time before he slumps, gives up on pretending to pay attention to the card game. While Milan snoozes Peter listens quietly, eavesdropping on a foreign conversation as he waits for his body to settle from takeoff.

"They're not your team anymore."

Rob's face pinches. "I know that. I still can't sleep."

Ray's quiet for a series of seconds, shuffling the cards. They make a slick, slippery sound as he handles them, deals them out again. "It's never as easy as they make it sound, y'know? That all of a sudden your contract changes hands and suddenly you feel like a different person than who you were, and yet you still play. Putting the wars you fought together aside just because with a phone call your friends are now wearing the wrong sweater."

"They were my team," Rob begins, then hesitates significantly because this is _Ray_ , and anyone who's worn the C understands without explanation. " _You_ know."

"Yeah." They're quiet for long enough that Peter starts to lose interest in them, in their drawing and folding and bluffing. Ray sounds reluctant when he begins to speak again, voice a sigh. "But I know something else. That's not your team anymore. It's not your room and it's not your sweater. When you're traded . . . You're a ghost now. There's no going home again, not from that."

He's surprised to hear Rob murmur, a shade too softly to be easily heard, "This is the hardest thing I've done. LA's gonna be tough, Ray."

"So is every team, at this stage," Ray admits after a moment. Denying it doesn't do any good. Ray is the dictionary photo of consistency, but he's also pragmatic. "The good thing is, so are we."

That's the only reassurance that they can expect so it has to be good enough.

It's then that Dan starts poking Peter in the back of the head, demanding attention like a three year old who's had too much Bubblizz with a constant litany of "Pete. Pete. Peter. Pete." He has to give up paying attention in favor of preventing something gross from being poured into his hair.

Everyone tiptoes around Rob initially, the quiet caution that comes from the fear that he might suddenly open up and start having _feelings_ if they say the wrong thing around him or something. If that happens there's the good chance he'll kill any witnesses once he's over it to hide the evidence and so Hinote and the younger guys start to avoid him like herpes; Peter and Ray pretend for the sake of politeness they have absolutely no idea why that would be. It's a completely brilliant arrangement that mostly works out because Joe is always there and when Rob punches the wall after they drop the first game in OT he's the one who quietly suggests ways to do it without breaking his hand or something equally brainless the next time.

It's impossible to stay mad in the face of Joe being captain.

When they make it to the Staples Center tied at one Rob shuts out the boos from the crowd that follow him whenever he touches the puck and delivers on everything they wanted when they made the trade for him, big hip checks and two wins on opposing ice. He still has bad dreams about it, he admits as much to Ray only to receive a firm pat on the back and a shrug that seems to say 'so have I', if Peter reads him correctly. They have some hard games, fought and won with tooth and nail, and Peter ends up feeling a little ill after each one, a tight heat in his side like a stitch that he has to breathe around just so he can play.

Then Games 5 and 6 roll around, and they're all ready to take it out on their stalls when they get steamrolled by two LA shutouts. Game 7 is always a pain in the ass, but dropping a 3-1 lead like it's something they can afford to do has the whole team on needles and pins like old sideshows. Patrick is furious in that seething, violent way of his because he has done his job. Peter feels sick and weak with it, and Joe radiates a subtle disappointment which is somehow worse. The crowd in LA had been too happy to send them back to Denver in double overtime after Game 6 and they can't afford this loss. They can't, _Ray_ can't.

They all know the history of Game 7s for the club — years and years of aborted seasons, of the Stars and Ray, fresh to the team and going home _this close_. He'd let it go as part of the game in 2000, as a promise of "One more year, just one more". They all know he means it, too. Highlight season or not, Ray is done. He wants to go out on the high of his career, but he's going to go out regardless. That's why he's with them this year, why he finished last year with them. The single career move he has ever made purely for himself, for this one goal they have all chased since childhood. Every single person on the team feels the pressure to see that his hardest decision never becomes his biggest regret.

It's something they're all aware of, but in the end it's defeatist thinking. It's not necessary.

"We know our history," Hartley admits before the game, surrounded by a growth of microphones the players are trying their hardest to ignore. "But we also know Felix Potvin's history."

Hinote shoots him a smile at that, and Peter responds quickly. It feels more like a rictus than anything.

Patrick vanishes for a while, off to do . . . whatever it is that Patrick does when he's avoiding the press. No one's ever figured it out, not even Aebischer, for all their supposed closeness. Patrick's never been given to playing the role of mentor even when he's provided the opportunity, even when the younger goalie so clearly wants to learn. When he returns he continues stretching like nothing happened, quiet exhalations as he works out the knots. It seems to take forever for the cameras to be chased away, for the dressing room to fall blessedly silent, just the sounds of tape and padding and fabric and Drury's absent humming.

They sit in their stalls staring hard at the floor, going over every scenario in their heads, every play, as though living it out inside will somehow make it inevitable on the outside as well. Peter knows in everyone's head they lift Lord Stanley at the end.

When it's time Joe's the first one to his feet and they all stay sitting for a moment in deference. In case there's something that he feels needs saying.

Joe doesn't give them a speech. He's never been one for big words, anyway. He readjusts his gloves, taps his stick on the carpet a couple times, and raises his head.

"Okay, guys," he murmurs, not needing to strain to be heard. "We can't afford to get lazy and fuck this up, okay?"

They all nod, a line of tin can soldiers awaiting the word.

Joe gives them his crooked little smile, and a shrug. "Follow me."

It's all he needs to say.

Things get a bit blurry from there — fast ice and the whisper of the puck, the crack of stick against stick and puck against glass, the pain that radiates until it becomes impossible to ignore. When asked later he'll tell them he doesn't remember a whole lot about that game, and it's true. He remembers Rob's goal in the first, high on the glove side just like they'd discussed, how he handles it from Bourque and fires it without hesitation or remorse. But the game is tied soon enough, and Peter can feel the momentum slipping, the weight in their skates and the sluggish thoughtlessness settling in like a disease.

Ignoring physical discomfort is second nature to him, as simple as the breath he takes before every shot. He can play with it, and play beyond it, because he's learned to categorize and isolate his pain. It is, for once, not his foot. Not his shoulder, not precisely, and it's almost his ribs except he's done nothing that could have caused them any more injury than he already has. He can't put his finger on it so he ignores it, pushes it back to that place where adrenaline and self control form a wall that not only keeps him on the ice, but keeps him producing.

He's Peter Forsberg. He's spent his entire career playing injured.

That's why, when he sees Chris open and beautiful in the center, it's as free of conscious thought as a heartbeat to pass to him, watch the puck ricochet off a defenseman's leg and past the glove again. Chris throws his arms around Peter and screams, not even caring for any collateral eardrum damage.

Everything becomes overlaid with a fine layer of victory and sensitivity — watching Ville, then Shjon, and finally Milan adding to the tally — and they're _flying_. They're flying so high it's simple to ignore, to push aside, the slow realization that something is horribly, horribly wrong. He's not playing off, not precisely. He's playing injured, for reasons he doesn't fully understand.

The locker room is filled with more sound, whoops and shouts and cries for champagne (though no one brought any, and there won't be any until after the Cup is safely in Ray's arms anyway) but someone produces a bottle of Avalanche Ale which feels utterly appropriate, spraying Rob in the face and staining his blonde hair dark. He's still trembling from the handshake line, from the hugs he'd never expected from his former team, but when the rest of the team decides that dinner — a good dinner, at a good restaurant, on Rob's dime because his team just put them through hell — is in order no one's gonna fight that. There are places that are open, and more importantly will stay open, for them as long as they need them to.

"Now you'll be able to sleep?" Peter asks, stuck there with Rob in the middle of everything, and Rob looks at him curiously; Peter's never talked about it, never questioned it out loud. He is, like Joe, completely unqualified to talk about this with any experience. He's also Rob's friend, which is why he has to try.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I'm gonna sleep good tonight." It takes Rob a moment to respond, but then he smiles. It's his genuine smile, the one he flashes when he's at ease with the world and the weight is off him. The slap he aims at Peter's back is nothing but affection but Peter winces anyway, that painful thing getting hotter and tighter. "Thanks, Pete."

Joe never misses anything. "You okay?"

Knee jerk reaction is to say "Yes", to shrug and pass it off but he can't do that, not to Joe. He pauses, rolls his shoulders for a moment and feels himself out before nodding. "Sore. There's a pain . . . I'll have to see the trainers for something extra tomorrow."

It seems to be enough for the moment, though he can see Joe watching, hand on his car door and cataloguing how he moves because they've known each other long enough to pick up hitches and fits. He makes sure to hold himself steady, not give Joe a reason to worry about something he's learned to live with.

Peter ends up with Dan and Chris in his car on the way to the restaurant for reasons he can't fully explain if asked, trying to keep them from killing each other in the back seat out of sheer excitement. Probably he'll have to talk to Joe about this babysitting the kids business, if he didn't find them amusing most of the time. Hinote in particular is crazy on adrenaline and victory, pestering Peter nearly as much as he's pestering Chris, and he has to work hard not to laugh because after the first unexpected chuckle he'd found his chest nearly too tight to breathe through.

Dinner with the team is something they all need, time together after a win to celebrate what they achieved, and the backlog of history they managed to kick to the curb with a Game 7 finally in their pocket. It's something to look back on next time they do this, to say "We did it that time, this time is no different". The victory and the arrogance seem to go hand in hand with the kids, cocky and unbeatable and strangely innocent in a lot of ways. The veterans tend to be quieter, a touch more introspective and lacking a lot of the loud self-assurance, silently confident.

There's so much he'd like to be a part of but he finds himself lost inside. The discomfort keeps multiplying, painful to the touch, making his whole side a hot, tight pressure like a bone deep bruise.

"Peter?" Joe looks concerned; Peter waves him off with a grimace, sitting deeper in his seat to take pressure off.

His breathing feels short and useless, hissing. The pain isn't crippling so much as persistent, a constant irritation that turns to a stab the deeper the evening gets. By the time the entrees arrive it's evisceration. He shoves his plate away after less than a full bite, 11 p.m. and incapable of ignoring it any more.

"I. Joe," he starts, has to stop to catch his breath only to discover it's just out of reach. "Joe, I can't seem to . . ."

A lot of what comes later is lost in a weird haze of accustomed pain slowly becoming more than he can bear. He's being pulled in all directions, like a fist is embedded deep in his side and tugging him around and he just can't _focus_. Each movement is painful and labored.

An arm around his shoulders as he's helped to his car, driving through Denver just barely within the legal speed limit. It's Joe behind the wheel, of course Joe because _always_ Joe, checking him in while Peter breathes into his neck and answers the questions as best as he can. His clothes are taken from him at some point; he gets a hospital gown in piss poor exchange. He doesn't remember changing. And then Joe leaving, promising that someone else would be along.

The pain reducers are a million little miracles at once, they make his memory even sketchier at moments but they're moments where not even his foot aches, free from the low level pain that comes from being Peter Forsberg, so he'll take them.

There's a lot that the doctors say that goes over his head — focusing on English is taking a concentrated effort for even the most simplistic conversations, which this isn't. It gradually comes through the whiteout that his **spleen?** has **ruptured?**. Individually the words make sense but it requires real thought to grasp them in conjunction with each other. The spleen, like a little liver tucked under his lung, gloomy and rich with red blood cells now leaking into his chest cavity.

They don't have an answer for why, when he gets his thoughts together enough to ask. Maybe holdover damage from his broken ribs. Maybe a hit. Maybe nothing at all. He is, after all, Peter Forsberg.

All it _means_ , after all, is that his season is over.

At some point over the next day Patrick and Adam come with their kids, bearing homemade cards, followed by Dan and then Ray. He's rarely alone. There are tests and discussion and a rather embarrassing conversation that consists of begging his brother not to let their mother fly out to watch him.

His surgery comes just in time to see St. Louis arriving on their doorstep with bags on their shoulders and a thick determination, the last ragged and roughed up survivors of the Western Conference. Very nearly everyone comes to visit him that day even with the big game looming; the room is jam packed with players and their partners. He's not fully comfortable being in the center of all this attention but it's all well meaning. After a while Dan and Chris and the younger guys go off to visit the children's wing, leaving Peter with the veterans, all the players he grew up with.

"You need help, you let us know," Joe makes him promise, looking to Debbie for confirmation. "We'll do what we can for you."

"I've got Roger for the next few days," he sighs, offering a little smile. "But after that, I'm on my own. I'll call if I need help."

When Peter is wheeled into surgery with his stupid hair net and that indignity of a green gown he's got his brother to watch him, and the team from Pierre to the stick boys with their eyes fixed on him and wishing him nothing but the best with his outcome. He knows he's being looked over, which is a comfort in its own way but also unnecessary — he's been cut into nearly too many times to count and it doesn't have the fear that it use to. He'll be fine because . . . well, he's been fine every time before and he's never been the sort to mess with a good thing.

The offending organ, wet and purple, leaking, finally exits his body under the knife and when he wakes the lack of that localized pain feels like a blessing in and of itself. The incision that runs down his chest is livid, raw edged and held together with artificial means when he peeks at it. Soon enough it will be a red scar, then white, like all of the others that litter his body and hardly deserve a thought. Right now he pokes at the gauze, fingers tracing the shape of it, trying to will the injury to knit and settle, to heal up the bloody space inside his chest and let him back on the ice. He's too medicated to notice the pain of the incision, but that will come soon enough.

He's too out of it to pay attention to the game itself the next day, lying in bed with the TV on and the shapes of his teammates darting across the screen at speed, playing for advancement just across town and too far away to do anything for them. They don't need him, but he still feels guilt each time he comes out of a doze as the horn blares, raising his head and blinking at the screen to try and figure out who scored, if he could have done what they did, if he was there. And no, because it's Joe, but he still wonders.

It's right before Game 2 that he's finally released. He's sitting up on the edge of his bed and waiting for Roger to finally get in, sign him out and wheel him to the car and get him out of here so he can leave the antiseptic behind, get to his condo and focus on healing. There's something about the atmosphere of a hospital that does the exact opposite of healing, so he waits. He gathers up the cards, the get well notes from the team and the teddy bear the team's children had chipped in to buy him, Mitchell carrying it in with Joe when he was brought to visit, dropping it onto his chest and then asking to play with the bed.

The pain medications are the good ones, the ones where sometimes he's not even aware he has a body, let alone pain. But that also makes his head fuzzy, disjointed little thoughts that mean nothing and thick forgetfulness.

Peter doesn't get to see Roger as much as he would like. There are moments when he misses his brother enough that he wonders if he has forgotten him, just a little. But he's certain that he would never go so long without seeing him that he would forget what he looks like.

His brother is not Markus and yet that's who walks through his door, maneuvering on crutches and smiling ruefully.

". . . You can't drive me, you only have one leg."

"One _working_ leg. Good to see you, too." Markus collapses heavily into the chair, resting his crutches on the wall and propping his foot up on Peter's knee.

Peter finds himself staring at his friend. "Please tell me I don't have to drive myself, Markus. What are you doing here?"

"Roger is signing your papers. And then I'm coming home with you to keep an eye on you." He leans back in his seat, watching Peter. "Something like the invalid leading the infirm."

Somehow Markus has managed to make Peter's brother into his nursemaid as well, all without his knowledge. There's a more pressing issue than Markus's presence, though, and it's in who's missing. "Where's Lotta? The girls?"

"They're back home. Which is where I would be if Lotta hadn't told me in no uncertain terms that Denver was where I had to be." There's a part of Markus's voice that sounds rueful, jealous of his wife and children returning home while his leg aches and heals and his muscles get worked on. Underneath it is worry, a natural fear of his own injury, a doubtful undercurrent of his ability to heal. He's not Peter, doesn't have Peter's history, but he knows that the possibility of his body betraying him is pretty much ever present.

He shrugs when Peter keeps watching him, the moment of hesitation lost until he's as settled in his decision as an old man settled into his favorite sweater. He switches into English as Roger walks in, followed by the orderly who's there to release Peter and give him his instructions. "Roger, please help me explain to Peter that I'm here to help him with any problems he might have."

Peter's baby brother looks between them, and then tactfully settles on "I will be curious in seeing that work for you."

"Did you _call_ him?" Peter starts, feeling a little hysterical when Roger takes it as a given that Markus is there.

"Didn't need to. Macken shows up when you are down." Roger looks up before placing his name on the release form and listening intently to the instructions. All three of them are focused on trying to comprehend the man's hurried English as he repeats on rote the instructions Peter knows almost by heart. No stressing himself, no picking, no heavy lifting. Keep the stitches dry (always an interesting exercise, in his experience), medications and instructions. He's already heard all about the dangers — lowered immune responses and a susceptibility to infection that he'll carry for the rest of his life without his spleen pumping or filtering or blurping or whatever it does in his body. They all listen, even Markus, nod at the appropriate moments and then promptly forget everything except the important bits.

Going to the car in a wheelchair is an indignity Peter would prefer to avoid. Since his release nurse is strict he pretty much has no choice within the hospital itself, but the moment Roger wheels him as far as the parking lot he's up, Markus limping his way at their sides.

"Explain how this is supposed to work?" he asks again, watching Markus navigate in that peculiar way he's seen before, where the observed hates crutches with a passion and refuses admit he needs them because that's a kind of defeat.

Markus throws his shoulder at him, which is laughably ineffective considering. "Shut up, it'll work."

"You know he only planned this so that you would be forced to take care of both of us," Peter sighs, leaning against Roger a little tiny bit, his torso burning and straining with the effort of moving upright. Just this little exertion is exhausting, leaving him shaking as he gets into his car.

"Peter, you say it like it's a surprise." Roger doesn't even bother to look at either one of them, sliding into the driver's seat and taking them home.

Peter has never owned anything except a condo; he has no particular fascination with yards and it works perfectly for him. Unlike Joe, with Mitchell and the twins, or Patrick with his three young ones, Peter doesn't need or want a great deal of space in his housing, preferring a small condo to putter around in. With three men it'll get crowded, but it's nothing unbearable even when he _is_ related to one of them.

Roger is set in Peter's extra bedroom, his bags deposited and mostly unpacked, with socks already in the laundry. Markus hasn't settled and he comes in the door with a skeptical eye, decor designed for function and only lightly tempered with a feminine touch. Peter knows for a fact that the elegance of Markus's home is mostly thanks to having a wife who's good at focusing on detail, something neither one of them have any talent with.

Markus ends up installed in Peter's bedroom. There's space, and they've done this often enough that sharing is hardly an issue — if pressed Peter would admit that having Markus in his room is infinitely easier than having Roger. There's something about being siblings that means, now that they actually have their own spaces, they're reluctant to surrender them even for convenience's sake. Besides, the master suite has the most accessible amenities for the invalids. Markus gets deposited in Peter's room with poor Roger as his bellhop and then they congregate back in the living area. Roger begins puttering around in the kitchen and Peter flops onto his back on the couch, thick ache in his chest and a heavy exhaustion hitting him as he flips through the channels. Markus plants himself on the chair opposite, leg up on an ottoman and watching the screen for a few moments before deciding it's not going to hold his attention.

"Peter, I'm going to make supper but I'll keep it light for you," comes Roger's voice from the kitchen, and Peter agrees with a half hearted grunt; he's aware he should be hungry but the surgery is still too fresh for his body to be recovered enough to request food.

He settles on "that'll be great, thank you," after a moment spent wondering if he should tell him not to bother. There are other people in the house now; they probably want to eat at some point.

Markus fiddles with his phone for a moment, as if debating something internally. "I'll need physical therapy while I'm here."

"What else is news?" Roger calls from the kitchen, and Peter stares. It's such a relief to hear Swedish, proper Swedish, flittering around his home that it takes him a moment to respond, looking at Markus with his crutches and his metal rod and okay. Obviously.

"So will I," he admits. "I still do, for everything. I'm sure we can get your files . . . transferred here or something like that."

"I already have." He shrugs, putting his phone aside and folding his arms over his stomach. "I didn't want you to think that I'm stealing your therapist, since I'm already stealing your home and brother." It's Markus's turn to look sheepish. That's not a look Peter sees often on him and it's amusing in its own way. There's no remorse, though.

"Just don't steal my covers," he decides after a moment, going back to his TV flipping, aimless as a winter wind. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, bloated with sleep.

Markus's laugh seems almost out of place. "Lotta broke me of that."

That's for the benefit of everyone involved. "Well, she's not the sort to tolerate bad behavior."

"Ya," he agrees. When Peter looks at him Markus seems misty, distance softening his eyes at the corner as his mind moves to Sweden for a moment, pure affection.

It's both a good and bad look for him. "Hey." He prods Markus's foot, the good foot, and waits for him to come back to the present. He does so in a few moments, returning to Peter's living room and the smell of dinner beginning to bubble on the stove, smiling a little sadly. "I know."

Markus nods at him, settles back on the cushions with his bad leg held up protectively as they watch the TV in silence. Roger keeps doing whatever it is that he's doing that smells quite good, with the occasional bang of pots and dishes and muttered curse words. "Your kitchen is impossible, Peter."

"I live by myself. I have my own system."

"I can tell." His brother snorts, resumes banging until Peter manages to doze off regardless of the racket. Markus stays where he is, watching the TV even though no one in the house cares about what's on.

When Markus wakes him — however much later he's not certain, even after he looks at the clock — dinner is ready and he's too ill to even consider eating any of it. Roger brings him a plate and he manages three bites before it's too much, pushing it away and finished before he's begun. He hasn't eaten an actual meal since before Game 7, and it's probably starting to show if he bothered to look in a mirror. He zones out through Markus's offer to do the dishes, and when it sinks in it shocks him. He's never really seen him clean up. It's a novelty, Markus perched on a tall stool, carefully scrubbing and then rinsing the dishes, setting them aside to dry. It makes him realize how long it's been since they've really seen each other outside of wives and girlfriends and parties and hockey. When it's just them hanging out.

Game 2 is in full swing the next time he comes awake. They're both watching, and Roger wants to watch because he wants Peter to win, even if he's not on the ice for the games, but Markus has no real investment in the game. Which is why it's somewhat strange to see him staring at the screen intently, his hand resting lightly on Peter's shoulder, fingers toying with the hair at his nape. He's awake in fits and starts, enough to think _damn, Joe_ as the game rolls along, but when the game is over he has no more idea of what exactly happened than he did in the first one. It feels wrong, makes him feel out of place and strangely put together, as though he's missing a limb he never knew he needed until now.

He gets put to bed early, Roger watching over him as he settles into his bedding and promptly flops onto his back, staring at a suddenly unfamiliar ceiling like he's only now discovering it. It makes him momentarily rueful about the state of his social life, but fresh out of surgery and knee deep in the playoffs race isn't a time to be considering it, even absently.

He wakes up for a second when Markus slips into bed, motions a little awkward and intrusive as he shoves pillows under his ankle, tossing until everything is comfortable. Peter only manages a sleepy sound of disapproval before he's out again, the simple tasks of being upright and awake and healing knocking him out as effectively as the pain medication situated beside his bed.

Markus sleeps in his brace, and Peter in his bandages. Surprisingly, Peter wakes up with all his blankets where they belong — Markus has always been a heat seeking creature but this time he's left Peter's covers alone and instead turned himself into an unidentifiable lump pushed up against Peter's good side.

There's something that feels distinctly unSwedish about that, but they've known each other so long all the jokes are old. And not particularly funny anyway.

Overnight his body has stiffened up — everything feels drawn tight in his chest, and the incision is a hot pain through his side. He can almost _feel_ what's missing inside his body, and he washes his hands extra carefully with the remembered warnings from his doctor in his ear, issued in a stern voice. The pill goes down easy, even though the water is thick and sticky in his throat, like treacle.

He lies down while it takes effect, fighting the pain that the simple rise and fall of his chest causes him. Markus wakes up enough to shift against him a little, his bundle of blankets pushing up against Peter's side and softening the sharp edges there.

When he finally feels up to it, once his body is no longer a fire ball focused in on his chest, he stumbles up and makes a slow and painful trek to the kitchen, vaguely hoping for something warm and inoffensive. Roger is nowhere to be seen, the difficulty of time zones messing with a body that's not used to bouncing between them. He manages a small cup of tea for himself, brewing it only lukewarm and drinking it with the sort of effort normally reserved for choking down a disgusting meal prepared by someone too important to snub.

It's a quiet moment when no one needs him — when he can sink back into the hard seat of his chair and allow himself to feel the strange, empty and painful place inside his chest. It's not mourning, not precisely, because he really has no concept of what it is that he's lost. At least physically. It's not an arm or a leg, something to miss. It's a weird, esoteric organ whose purpose he doesn't even fully understand. But he needs a moment to think about his team playing without him, that's what he needs to grieve. The end of his season with the very real realization that his team is not finished and there's nothing —

He can hear Markus when he gets up, mumbled curses and the rhythmic thumps of his crutches hitting the hardwood floor. His hair is mussed, worn at ragged angles impossible without sleep and his face is puffy and a little red. There's no standing on ceremony — he shoves Peter out of his way, grabbing for the coffee machine with greedy fingers.

"Sleep well?" Peter asks, more out of absent politeness than anything. Markus grunts at him as he gets his cup filled with the coffee Peter left to percolating, making it sweeter than Peter's preference before collapsing in his chair, leg propped up on the spare.

"Yea, thanks." He plays with the rim of his cup before taking a quick swallow, nothing on his face betraying how badly that must burn his throat and tongue. His fingers are turning red where he's gripping the cup. "I didn't bother you?"

"For the most part." He can see Markus allowing a small amount of regret to creep into his face, guilt for installing himself into Peter's life and making demands of his time like he has any right to be here. He cuts those thoughts off before they're able to coalesce. "I'm glad you're here. You help."

Markus looks confused at the sincerity for a moment, but it's fleeting. "That's good?" he offers, drinking his coffee a touch slower. "When I broke my leg, that first month? If it hadn't been for Lotta and the kids, I would have gone crazy, I think."

Peter grips his arm for a second over the expanse of the counter, fingers pressing to the vulnerable skin covering his pulse. "I think I already am crazy."

"Well, since you said it first." Markus doesn't shake his hold off; instead he turns his hand up so his palm is exposed to the ceiling. The pulse beats under Peter's fingers, rapid and strong, and he traces the vulnerable tendons of Markus's wrist before pulling his hand back to grip his mug.

They're quiet for going on half an hour before Peter draws up the energy to speak again.

"I need to go back, Markus. This is. It's too important, this is where we stumbled last year, and I need to be back for them."

"You're no good to them right now." It seems harsh, but he knows what Markus means and it takes some of the sting out. "Your team, they'll either rally, or they won't. It has nothing to do with last year, or with you; they have other guys on the ice who are more than capable. If they can't rally they can't, but they have to be able to play without you either way."

It's everything that Markus knows intimately, seated at the sidelines and watching his team make their way into the playoffs by the skin of their teeth, fighting for everything without him out there with them. Peter's not Markus — his team doesn't need him in quite the same way, visceral as well as logical. He's not Joe.

"You can't kill yourself trying to get back."

"I _want_ to be back," he amends.

That earns him a crooked smile and a brief nod. "Of course. You wouldn't be Peter if you didn't."

He feels a little achy and stiff, tired in a bone deep way. "I don't feel much like Peter right now." It takes a lot out of him to admit that, more than he expected, and suddenly he's _drained_.

"Okay, you need more sleep." Markus pushes up from his chair, coffee forgotten as he grabs at his crutches. "You are entirely too depressing. Don't make me carry you, because I can't."

There are moments when being a jerk to Markus is amusing, but this isn't one of them. "You can't send me back to bed."

"I can when you're acting like Isabella before her nap." He pokes Peter with a crutch. "Go. Go."

"I just got up," he grumbles, coming to his feet with awkward motions designed to protect his torso from movement.

The laughter that hits them both from the doorway makes Peter cringe for a moment, almost like _caught_ , even though he can't think of a damn thing to be caught in, as hobbled as they both are.

"Both of you are old men." Roger blazes past them, all but rubbing his mobility in their faces, and Peter begins to plot his revenge for the time when he's healthy, when Markus can help him.

"Says the man who sleeps till noon," Markus shoots back without a lot of heat, because Roger is Peter's brother, and therefore is Peter's to take apart if he wants to.

"That's called jet lag, Mr. Limp."

Markus sputters a bit, dramatic and exaggerated, and Peter finds himself chuckling until his side seizes up and he has to stop, take deep breaths while the pain works its way out of him. Markus is there, hand curled around the back of his neck and rubbing absently.

"Ow," he mutters quietly, straightening up and rolling back against Markus's hand. Roger is leaning against the counter, cup of coffee clenched in his fist and looking between the two of them with an expression so neutral it comes out on the other side towards judgmental.

Markus moves once Peter's no longer gritting his teeth, switching his grip to awkwardly tugging at his shoulder. "Bed, Foppa. Now."

"Miss each other that much?" Roger is rummaging in the fridge, so he doesn't see the face Markus pulls at his back.

"Haha. You're supposed to be the nursemaid; shouldn't you be the one assisting your poor, broken brother to bed?"

"I'm not broken," Peter protests wearily, disregarding the fact that he _is_ off, sore and tired and _busted_. It's silly to deny it, even though ego demands that he does. He can't lean on Markus the way he would like, so when he's on his feet he sways on his own a little before finding firm footing. "But I am tired. I should . . ."

" _Ya_ ," Markus agrees, nudging at him a little. "Go on, get going."

Peter makes his way to bed, pride keeping his posture tall and straight even as he wants to slouch. Markus thumps behind him, crutches making _tak_ noises across the floors.

He feels somewhat ridiculous returning to bed so quickly, but as soon as he slips onto the mattress the pain in his side lessens, his torso no longer straining to keep him upright. It's beautiful enough that he slips his eyes closed and sighs, and maybe. Maybe it's for the best that he stay down, that he rest instead of push. No matter how bad he wants to be back, he can't return if he pushes so hard that he has a setback. It's the rule of healing.

Markus slips onto the bed next to him, stretching out on his good side and tucking Peter against himself, pillowed on his shoulder. Peter finds that he's breathing carefully, cautious of his injury and of Markus, sharing the same space.

He's not sure, once he falls asleep, if it's fatigue or boredom or Markus's comforting heat that lulls him off. Whatever it is that does it, he wakes up feeling marginally better again, like each moment is a slow progression towards his end goal. Markus isn't with him and he takes the time to stretch carefully, enjoy his space and privacy while he has it before getting up, brushing his teeth all over again and wandering into the kitchen to try something soft and bland.

\\\

Roger leaves him after those tentative first days and Peter can't really blame him. He can mostly get by on his own at this point, baby steps back towards total self-sufficiency, and he has Markus to keep him company still. Markus is as much a mystery as he was in the beginning, but it's a good mystery. On the rare occasions when they can't rely on each other Peter just makes the rookies run his errands.

Peter all but lives on soup those first few days. Once the team realizes this Dan appoints himself official shopper and buys more at the store, a stockpile of everything Dan can imagine. Even once Peter begins feeling better he keeps eating it, because if he doesn't he'll be stuck with cartons of pea soup for years to come.

It's decent enough. None of it is particularly original, but they're not really culinary masters. It's fine, for the first few days Peter's okay with it.

He's resigned to heating a package until he recognizes Markus's handwriting on a container of something that appears homemade. He opens it with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, sniffs cautiously and then opts to eat it based on a lack of obvious deadliness.

He's glad he risked it. Markus's handwriting or not, the ärtsoppa looks and tastes just like home, like fresh ingredients and his own kitchen. It's enough to restore his faith in soup kind, almost.

He sips on it as he settles into his armchair, casting around absently for Markus, who doesn't seem to be anywhere to be seen. He's not completely sure how much he's slept, but it's close to two o'clock by his watch. Probably Markus is out with Milan or Dan shopping or walking or . . . whatever it is that they would do together. Hassling Blues fans, maybe.

He settles in with his soup, sipping at it while he reads the Rocky Mountain News. The Avalanche have the front page, Patrick's right leg thrown out wide and huge to block a shot. It's easy to see him as the Wall from the angle, back in the net with him towering like a skyscraper across the splash. The article isn't the same; it's not like the game that he mostly slept through (the _second_ game his brain reminds him, as though the guilt for being injured isn't enough) but the News makes an honest effort to make it as exciting as it can. It's . . . not exciting at all, not when he should be in the thick of it and isn't. It's a good story that he's completely isolated from, tucked up in his condo with his scars and Markus.

It's wrong. It's so very wrong in a lot of ways both big and small. This is the first time he's spent the playoffs at home since the Nordiques began appearing in them and it's just wrong.

Markus and Dan get back an hour later and he's still up, the soup still settled in his belly. He's feeling almost human, not himself but with the potential to be himself with time. Steps forward are positive, even when they're baby steps.

"Where were you?" he asks, head tilted over the back of his chair to look at them. Markus smiles at him; upside down it looks like a grimace.

"The PT got my files," he begins, so maybe that actually was a grimace. "I got to work on my leg some more."

"I got to drive him." Dan drops Peter's keys on the table, headed for the kitchen. "Don't tell me you ate all the soup stuff. Markus was a dick, he was like 'You don't have to drive me, but if you do you get soup'."

"So you sold yourself for soup?" Peter finds himself regarding the bowl with greater respect. He's never been able to get Dan to do anything.

". . . You make it seem like that's bad. Is the soup not worth it? Should I have held out for a steak?"

"You're making it sound like he sold his maidenly virtue." Markus makes his way to the kitchen, a little stiffer than usual. "And it would _still_ be worth it. I called home for that recipe, and my wife gave me the strictest instruction to make sure it was fit for consumption."

"You called her just for this?" Peter throws it over his shoulder, listening to Markus's steps falling slow and careful.

"Well, not for _just_ this, no," comes from the kitchen, followed by the sounds of fridges and microwaves. "She's what you call my wife. Sometimes I do things like call because I miss her voice."

Peter makes an unseen face at him then settles deep into his chair; he needs to take more of his pills, he can feel the empty pain starting to radiate and make the soup in his belly rest heavy and nearly nauseating. His refusal to move is barely overpowering the pain for the moment.

Markus strokes his hair on the way past, palming the back of his skull before he collapses into the sofa, throwing his leg up on the ottoman. He holds out his hands for the soup that Dan brings to him with an eye roll and a sigh, settling in with his own bowl.

"Huh." Dan says after a few bites, his face speculative. "This isn't bad, actually. I'd consider moving to Sweden for this stuff."

"Well, I guess it's a better reason than some," Peter offers with a little grin towards Markus.

"Are you ever going to stop being jealous of Todd?" he asks, voice deceptively mild.

It's a joke. He knows it's a joke because it's _Markus_ , but something about it seems unusual, like a dare or something. Todd is Markus's teammate, the left to his right, and they play well together. They're deeply fond of each other, Todd manifesting it in that strange, possessive streak towards his captain. Someday Todd might come to Sweden to play, he's hinted.

Is he jealous of Todd? Of the time and exposure he has, while Peter gets phone calls at irregular hours?

But . . . he plays for _Vancouver_ , whereas Peter is here. And so no, not really.

"I didn't know I was," he murmurs, a moment too late to be an effective joke back.

Markus drops it, apology creeping into his posture even though neither one of them seem to know what he's supposed to be sorry _for_. Dan keeps looking between them, an expression of polite incomprehension on his face as he keeps eating. "So, you married couple gonna remember I'm not Swedish any time soon?"

"Oh, shit. Sorry, Noter."

Dan shrugs a little, reaches for the remote. "It's cool. I mean, I can still understand Patty better than you can, so it's all good."

Point to Dan, in the end.

He apparently falls asleep while watching the Devils, wakes up to a sharp pain in his side and Markus waking him gently, rubbing at his shoulder.

"Ow," he manages, sitting up straight. The slouch he fell into is killing his side. "Where's Dan?"

"He left about an hour ago." He throws his hands behind his head, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I guess after three hours he figured you weren't gonna wake up any time soon, and watching you sleep really isn't that interesting."

"You seem to think it is." Peter scrubs at his face, the rasp of his beard against his palm catching in his ear.

"Ya, but I'm weird." He sneaks a look over at Peter, then straightens up. "You, uh. You look kinda pale?"

Peter makes a face at him. "What do you think."

Markus hobbles back a few minutes later, leaning on one crutch with his leg tucked up high, water and a pill in his free hand. He looks ridiculous.

"You look ridiculous."

"I'll never bring you your meds again." He shoves them at Peter, the water sloshing up the sides of the glass. "Just watch."

He takes the pills in his palm, throws them to the back of his throat before gulping down the water.

It's lukewarm. "Thank you."

"Of course." He seats himself carefully. It's so odd, neither of them is given towards being sedentary but now, when they have time in which to do things? All they seem to be able to do is sit in increasing silence, opposite sides of the room and stuck in thought.

"Foppa . . ."

He doesn't have an explanation for it. There's the moment where Markus breaks the silence, forming a thought that dies half way out, and then he stills. That moment hesitates and then it's something else, Markus looking like he's waiting for something, begging him to understand. The air is dangerous around them, thick and difficult to work through.

It feels loaded for a moment.

Markus shakes his head, comes back to the present after several seconds of nervous pausing, rubbing at his hair. "I don't even know. I miss my ladies."

"You want the teddy bear the kids got me? It might help."

It's awkward and strange as hell, but Markus laughs a few times, pushing at his shoulder and erasing that weird nothing that lingered like something. "I'm going to call them."

"Again? Aren't they in bed?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." He shrugs his apathy, rolling his shoulders. "I should see how they are, if they're seeing their friends again."

". . . Isabella has friends?"

"Baby buddies. Whatever, I just." He seems so out of sorts, needs grounding like only his family can give him.

At uncharitable moments Peter is jealous of that.

Markus goes to make his call, voice soft and affectionate as it filters through the house in meaningless syllables. There's something deeply personal in that, and Peter attempts to ignore it, phase the sounds out of his hearing so that Markus has the privacy he needs, the time with his family that he craves.

It's nearly a Zen place, and he relaxes into it with deep breaths. It's the closest he's been to the ice in a week and it feels —

He misses his team more than he ever has before, the hole in his chest formed by something completely intangible and no less real. His team and the game and participating, doing more for them than being a bystander to their struggles and successes.

It's a thought he abandons with a sigh before going to bed and leaving Markus to his wife.

Peter's mostly asleep when Markus finally slips into bed, a cold brush of air against his spine and more lumping and thrashing as he arranges his leg.

He's tired, and injured, and it doesn't help any of that when Markus curls tight against his back as if to apologize for chilling him.

\\\

St Louis rallies in Game 4. It's no less than he expects — St Louis is not a team to fold, not when they have fought this long and this hard for the same goal and they out-play the Avalanche. It's frustrating; one more match to make it through, one more loss and one more game added to the growing tally they have already played, the toil on all of their bodies. The team is no longer as young as it once was, and they all wanted it done as quickly as possible.

At some point that he can't really pinpoint he begins to feel more or less human. He's eating something besides soup, and his body is no longer reacting to every expense of energy by demanding a long nap. He almost never needs to call on his team for help in getting things done, unless it requires heavy lifting for some reason.

Markus is . . . present, occasionally underfoot.

He keeps waiting for the arguments to start, the little squabbles that were impossible to avoid back when they were kids, sharing games and medals and rooms on the road. There are a few moments of strangeness, of awkward adaptation, but not anywhere near actual difficulty. They can get out of each other's hair without too much of a problem if they need to.

This is why he's at Milan's, face-to-face across a kitchen table and grateful to be away for a moment, be out like he would be if things were different. If everything was different.

He's not the sort to believe the team is incapable of winning without him. This team can do anything; he believes it with nearly childlike absolutism, unthinking and unwavering. They are so much more than their individual parts, but they want him and he wants to be back. Unfortunately desire means nothing when it's only been a few weeks. He wants to be back so badly it hurts. It's bone deep and totally unlike his spleen, untouched by medication.

The idea that he might not be back isn't acceptable. He won't consider it.

"You coming with us for Finals?"

"I can't play. They won't give me an all clear."

"Doesn't mean you can't come."

It's an obvious point, and Peter wants to be a part of the team again so bad that he aches. "I'll talk to the doctors. I want to, Milo."

Milan shrugs, fingers curled tight around the glass. They're rough and cracked, player's hands. "We want you with us also; it will be your Cup to hold."

"We're gonna win?" He can't resist the little smirk, the way Milan smiles back.

"Of course. I need ring. Don't want the old ones getting all the glory. Alex, too."

They clink glasses, beer to water. "Number four for Patty." It's somewhat mind boggling, even though he knows the man intimately by now.

"He is like he has something to prove." Milan sounds awed, shaking his head. "He will not slow. I'm glad I have never played against him."

"It was always an exercise in humility," Peter admits, not one to fake bravado. Patrick is, and always will be, a . . . unique case. "You should have seen him that first year."

It's on everyone's mind, but it's Milan who says it. "One for Ray, too. He deserves it."

"Oh God, we get enough of that from the damn media."

Milan looks at him for a moment and then starts laughing, shaking his head. "Foppa, even we talk of Ray when we talk of this season. You begin to see why it is his story."

"I have a much bigger appreciation for his patience." Milan has always been able to catch his humor and so he laughs at the right time, touching their glasses together before opening the conversation to plays, discussions. Peter has centered Milan's line often enough; strategy comes second nature to them even away from the ice.

"The games have been great. You've made some great plays," he says, suddenly awkward in the role of observer. He knows it's no one and nothing's fault, but the sense of wrong, of unintentional abandonment, is still there. It's no secret that the team is surviving without him, surviving and more.

He's not bitter, but . . .

Maybe he's a little bitter.

"Are they saying anything?"

Peter sighs, scooting back in his seat. "No, not really. I think maybe it was worse than they want to admit, but they won't give answers anyway. It's making me crazy, Markus might kill me."

Milan nods, watching Peter carefully. On the team he's the most like Peter — quiet, a little shy and the right sense of humor. They've always gotten along well, and after Joe Milan is the one who has done the most for him, always ready to help. If he isn't then Zlatuse is, and Markus benefited from plenty of leftovers in little Tupperware containers while Peter was still struggling to remember why food was considered a good thing.

He knows Peter very well. "How is Markus? He is still here?"

"Yea." He smiles a little, crooked and fond. "For awhile longer, anyway."

"He doesn't have a date?" Milan looks perplexed, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes like a great storm cloud. "What about his wife? And kids?"

Peter shrugs, that familiar, slow crawl of _not knowing_ wriggling through his belly again. Milan's beer looks wonderful, looks like relaxation, but he's not supposed to have any still. It kind of sucks. "They're home, doing whatever needs to be done. It's a favor."

"A _huge_ favor," he corrects, shaking his head. "For him to be away from wife and kids is. Is a _huge_ favor."

There's a moment where he casts around to find the joke, searching Milan's face. But Milan has a wife and Peter doesn't, and he understands things. Milan keeps looking at him with a strange expression, like he's waiting for Peter to puzzle out something that he's very curious to see his reaction to. "It does not seem like him to be afraid of something, like to travel."

Which . . . Is absolutely true, actually. "Now that you say that."

Milan nods twice, like it's been decided. "You should ask."

He wants to. And he doesn't. Each night that Markus crawls into bed after him and wraps around his heat, the words go sideways and catch in his throat. "I don't ask about things like that. He might tell me the truth."

Milan laughs, pushing his beer across the table until Peter can take a drink, slow and careful like he is with everything new. Like it might be different somehow, like so much of his life is different right now.

It tastes like beer — annoyingly cold like Americans always insist it should be, weak and soft. He makes a little face and Milan shrugs, looking speculative. "I thought Markus and you —"

"Oh for God's sake, have you been talking to Dan?" He's starting to feel embarrassed.

Milan looks less than remorseful, fingers drumming on his tabletop. "Yes, I will drop it."

Peter didn't set out with the intent of finishing Milan's beer, but once that one's gone there's another right after it, and his water is next to useless next to him. There's probably something deep in that observation, that his own water is as useless as he is, sitting and going lukewarm without any helpful application, so he finishes the second to shut his own brain up.

It's not like he's drinking too much, not with the meds he's still on. He's not the _type_ , not when he's just barely cleared from surgery and a long way from back in the game, but dammit. He's a long way from the game, and he's a long way from what he wants, which is to be out there and holding that Cup in the air, feeling the way the metal goes cold and then skin hot, the weight of names putting strain on shoulder muscles that are already pushed to breaking point from a long season with everything left out there. He's miles away from all of that and the beer doesn't let him forget, but it does take some of the sharp edges away and helps him smooth everything out to an even level.

"I should not have given you that," Milan murmurs, taking him to his car with eyes focused on his steps, like he might suddenly hit ice in early May. "Pat might kill me."

Peter blinks at him, tilts his head. "This is out from them. I'm under surgery rules now."

"Even better." Milan rolls his eyes as he gets him into the car, evaluating carefully before sighing and deciding to drive him himself, taking the keys.

He's not drunk, only a soft buzz, but it's enough to not fight the quiet assistance. It would be foolish to drive so he lets Milan take him, in the same way he's had to let so many people drive him around since this . . . it's not an accident. Markus suffered an accident. He's suffering the wrath of an angry god or something like that.

When he gets home it feels later than it is. He wasn't with Milan for long, a few hours, but the place is quiet in a way it hasn't been since Markus and Roger crashed the party. Now he only has Markus, and that's more than enough except when it's so quiet and still.

Markus seems to be asleep when he opens the door to the bedroom, tucked up on his side and hogging the blankets for all he's worth. Peter can't stop mumbling about that as he changes, moving into his briefs quietly, even though Markus seems dead to the world.

It's his bed, inside his home, in his city, but there's a second of hesitation when he goes to grab the covers back. Something that requires a strange dose of bravery when he reaches past Markus's bare shoulder to the covers that are his.

It's his bed. It _shouldn't_.

Watching him, he wonders if it took something out of Markus each time he followed Peter to bed. And if it did then he's left with the next question: why he's still here, in Peter's master suite and in Peter's bed, when Roger has been gone and the sheets laundered. Objectively it doesn't make a lot of sense. No more than the sudden hesitation he's feeling that meant less to nothing when he was there first, when he wasn't the one making the decisions about where he slept. It was acceptable for Markus to arrange himself, wake Peter up with tossing and a poorly aimed elbow, but it's different now for reasons that are so nonsensical he can't even put words to them.

When he finally deposits himself under the covers, wrestles the blanket away from Markus enough to barely offer warmth, he lays there for a second listening to hear how much the other man has woken up.

He's cold.

"It's okay, Foppa," Markus mumbles against the pillow, sleep slurry with one arm out to him. It's only then that Peter comes closer, gets the courage to slip up against Markus, careful of spleens and legs until there's flesh-warmed blankets and Peter can curl up against his good side, Markus's fingers stroking down his bicep soothingly.

Markus hums quietly in response, doesn't shift so much as wriggle a little closer for comfort, and Peter's left falling asleep with his hand on Markus' hip for reasons he can't begin to understand.

\\\

He's not strong, or healthy. Not yet. He's mostly decreasingly sore and increasingly frustrated and watching his team pursue their final target with the single-mindedness of a landslide.

He's not well, but he can start to see that Well is a place in the distance that he can reach. Maybe in time for the Finals.

"No." His doctor leaves no space for argument, looking at his charts and then up at Peter over the edge of his lenses. "It's still too soon, Pete. Recovery from these types of surgeries takes time."

"I just —"

The fact is he knows it was a traumatic injury. That his body needs time not only to heal up the hole in his chest, but also to learn to cope without the spleen that betrayed him at this crucial hour. It's all tied together, injury and healing and recovery, and he knows he's much too hurt to play yet, but he just wants to know _when_.

His doctor is far too smart to give him even that.

He winces as the doctor jams another needle into his bicep, depositing more injections meant to do the work of his missing spleen. He can look forward to a few more of these.

Markus looks up from his magazine, seated on the other side of the room and waiting patiently while Peter finishes up. His doctor had been unsure about allowing Markus in, but with his patient insisting it was fine he finally allowed him to hang out.

"Poor Foppa." It's hard to tell if he's being serious or condescending; that's a fine line Markus excels at, and he almost regrets inviting him.

"I don't feel I'm getting the sympathy I know I deserve."

His smile is bright and brilliant. "Good."

"Another three to four weeks, Markus," he murmurs, pulling his shirt back on and hopping off the examination table.

"Ten to twelve weeks _non weight bearing_ , Peter."

"Are you actually competing to see who is most broken?" He's probably going insane, but he can't play and his team is in the _playoffs_. He holds a hand out to Markus and helps him get to his feet, handing the crutches over before thanking his doctor.

"You're more broken. I'm more tragic." Markus gestures at his leg. "Can you not see that?"

"Your team got swept out, mine still needs me." It's true, and Markus _knows_ it's true.

The look on his face is very nearly physical pain, the look right as he'd gone down to the ice with his leg mangled beneath him, when the only word he could manage was "Gross". Peter can't begin to comprehend that pain, let alone touch it. "Macke . . ."

He shakes off his concern, eyes slipping closed and then open, a split second longer than a blink. "I know."

"You're a relief to me, here. My team's good to have around, but you're —" _My best friend_ he begins, but then hesitates. It's more complicated than either one of them have ever been able to understand, first jobs and first dates and World Silvers all mixed together into an impossible soup of everything that defines who they are, as players and individuals and a unit. It's not something to discuss in a waiting room, even with the anonymity of Swedish to hide behind. "My Macke," he finishes lamely, shrugging.

Maybe that's all he needs to be certain about, at the moment.

"That I am," he agrees when no further explanation is forthcoming.

Peter has no more idea why Markus is here than he did when he arrived. But he knows that he's glad that he's here, that there's no hesitation in his gratitude for his presence and distraction. That he's selfish enough to need his attention and companionship. It shows him some unflattering angles when he looks at it right, so he doesn't.

Markus ruffles his hair like he's the older of the two, leaning down to press his nose into his scalp for a moment. "We'll be fine, Peter. Both of us."

He's heard it from Joe, from Ray, from practically every person on the team who has had the C on their chest. It's part of the Captaincy Handbook, the weight of a letter he doesn't have to carry. It's no different coming from Markus but it feels like it is, for some reason. "Ya, I know."

"Good." Markus kisses him lightly on the forehead, ruffling at his hair again until Peter jerks his head away with a snort, pushing him back.

"Stop it."

"Your hair is perfectly horrible," he teases, ruffles it again before pushing at his shoulder. "Stop being so depressing."

"I'm not depressing."

"Tell that to yourself, see if you believe it." And they laugh, because it's not funny and they need something to laugh at, so it will have to suffice. "Come on, we both have PT to make our slow and depressing way towards."

Peter looks down the long hallway, back at Markus, and sighs. "Race you?"

\\\

"But how are you? Truly?"

It's a gentle question, asked in Lotta's gentle voice. Peter's caught in a sigh, turns to watch Markus disappear from the corner of his eye.

"I'm fine, for the value of that. It's healing normally, and . . . It's healing."

It's small talk — polite, ambling, mostly filling the space while Markus works on his tie. But he knows underneath it that Lotta is concerned for his well-being because Markus cares, in the same way he cares very much for her. It all cycles around to Markus, somehow.

"I just need to be back with the team for the playoffs . . ." He feels lost without his pregame ritual, even though all he's doing is sitting in the box with Markus.

"Congratulations on that, by the way."

He's not bitter. He's _not_. "I wish I could say thank you, but I've had shit all to do with that."

He can almost hear the shrug, the soft whisper of her hair as her shoulders rise those few inches. "A few rounds of the playoffs, maybe. That's by far the most important part, but the whole season isn't worthless by any means."

"It's not fair how much your family keeps reassuring me of that." He laughs a little, softness entering the edges. "Thank you."

"And Macken? He's staying careful, right?"

It's a conversation he's been anticipating with a healthy dose of dread, too possessive to handle the inevitable request to return Markus and angry at himself for being that way. It'd be easier to be honest, tell her Markus is as careful as a choir boy, but somehow it slips out as "He's Markus."

Lotta knows what that means. "Please tell me you've stopped him short of shingling the roof?"

"I rent," he laughs, shaking his head. "He's kept busy, mostly making my life more complicated. He cooks, apparently."

She tuts. "Know I'll hold him to that. And I'm glad he has you to help."

"Honestly, he's helping me a great deal."

"You misunderstand, I mean that that I'm glad that he has you around for him _to_ help." She pauses, and he gets the feeling she's preparing to say something big, like asking for Markus back. He's not expecting her to say, "He's staying for you, you know."

It comes out unheralded, a little blip in conversation that could almost be a Freudian slip except there's no backtracking, no fumbling at an explanation or trying to pass it off as a mistake.

"His leg . . ." he starts, then bails on the sentence halfway through. It's been obvious to Peter for long enough that Markus's leg has been more than all right to travel with since probably days after the surgery, but he's selfishly accepted the explanation of reluctance because he's already lost his team. It's not like he's _making_ Markus stay with him, so guilt doesn't sit quite right in the situation, but something inside gets tight when he thinks about it. He doesn't even have a spleen to blame it on anymore. He sighs in defeat. "He is, is he?"

"Of course."

He wants to resent the easy way she says it, the way she slips in this statement yet manages to hold contempt or resentment out of her voice. Even though she's the only one in the situation with every right to it. It's not fair that . . .

Well, a lot of things aren't fair.

"He worries about you, Peter. Even during the season, he . . ." She sighs, drops her voice low. "He looks after you, because he sometimes worries you don't look after your own interests well enough."

It's ridiculous; Markus owes him nothing, he's not his agent or his family but it says a lot that he's always more than prepared to answer questions about Peter's health on his behalf. "He's a ridiculous nurturer."

He can picture her expression, the way it flickers instantly to fondness, because he's seen it plenty of times in person. "You should see him with the girls."

The subject isn't particularly sore, but it is quietly unspoken. At that he instantly begins to search Markus out, to return his phone to him because complicated tie or not the conversation has gone to a place where he can never follow it. He didn't ask to be put on with Lotta, he has a game to go to, but when Markus passed it off for safe keeping he'd begun talking because politeness required it, because his tie was already done and Markus needed both hands to dress properly.

"He becomes impossible when you're injured, you know. It's almost like he frets over you. It's all extremely annoying, really. Once the team was rather unceremoniously dumped out he had nothing to keep himself occupied. Your injury was a blessing, though I'd never say that."

"Um." He blinks a few times, completely lost in the curves. Where the fuck is Markus, the condo isn't even that big.

"Markus needs you, Peter. I know that. And I'm a hockey wife; we're just fine without him at home. Right now I get the feeling you need each other a hell of a lot more than I need him cluttering up my house and worrying about you."

"You think he'd be used to it. Even my own mother doesn't bat an eye when I get hurt anymore."

She sighs, low and pressured. "It doesn't help how often he has to field questions about you. It forces him into the loop."

"That's not _my_ fault!"

"No, but it's irritating as hell."

He doesn't have a chance to defend himself further; Markus plucks up the phone from his hand and resumes in the middle of conversation, promising to talk more before hanging up with a soft "I love you."

He slips the phone into his breast pocket, smiles at Peter. "Did she talk your ear off?"

He can't avoid the suspicious look that flits across his face. "Yes?"

"Oh. Um." Markus pushes softly at his hair. "Sorry?"

"No, it's okay. Just. Milan was right about something, I think."

Markus looks politely interested in him, but Peter's not quite ready to clue him in. He reaches over and straightens his tie for him instead. "It's game time."

"For everyone but you. I heard they were gonna have you play as Howler next year."

He grinds his teeth together. "Fuck you."

"Seriously, they think the extra padding in the costume will protect you."

"Seriously, fuck your ass."

Markus is grinning brightly as he makes his way out the door. Peter doesn't slam it on him, because he is above that. Or so he will tell the authorities when Markus topples down the stairs.

\\\

"Plan on sticking around?" It's a question that's been stalking him for weeks but now that things are settled, now that the Devils are the victors in the East and it all comes down to them, Peter finds he's sick of wondering.

Markus looks up from dicking around with a magazine, squints a little at him, then at his bag. The magazine has Ray on the cover. "Sticking around?"

"I mean, you'll have the keys, obviously. I'll still be in town during the home stretches. And if you need anything special I'm sure Debbie or Michele can help. Well, maybe not Debbie, the twins are still so young. But I just want to know if you'll still be here."

"When you get back?" Markus looks around at the bedroom, the scatter of their combined mess and the prospect of sorting his out during the time when Peter will be with his team, in their hotel and on the road like he's meant to be. "I . . . was planning on it. Unless there was someone else you wanted to get moved in here."

It's not particularly funny, but the prospect of finding someone in _Jersey_ makes him laugh anyway. "I should have guessed you'd be too cheap to get your own hotel room after all this time."

"Says the man staying on the team's dime." Markus licks his finger delicately, flips a page.

"Says the man living with his former teammate."

"Best friend," Markus corrects, sounding a little fastidious. "Anyhow, I was planning on sticking around until you . . . Well, _after_ you win, I figured we could head home together. That way Lotta has only one pickup."

"I do have help back home, you know," he sighs, shoving his glasses up his nose. "Remember Roger? He hauled your ass around for a few days about a month ago? Or my parents, they let you sleep over most nights when we were kids? They still exist, you know."

Markus's eyebrows wrinkle up. "So . . . you're saying your family will suddenly be interested in taking care of you?"

"I didn't say . . . Oh, seriously. Stop being a terrible human being." He rolls his eyes, shoving more socks into the bag. He's never been good at this, so he settles for just throwing things in and hoping for the correct ratio of underwear to days.

He did convince the equipment manager to secure his skates for the trip. With a no contact jersey he should be fine to practice. As far as he's concerned, anyway. Hartley might have a different opinion, and he's welcome to it.

"Are you sure you're ready for practice?"

"Yes, _Mom_." He finishes shoving the last of his things into the carry on. It's so very lightweight without needing to bring anything related to actually being able to be on the ice. There's a moment of bitterness in that. "The doctors gave me clearance for light activities with no contact."

Markus stares at him, then deadpans, "Are _you_ sure you're ready for practice?"

. . . He knows him too well. "Okay, fine. I will try my hardest."

"Peter . . ."

"My _softest_ , then."

Markus begins laughing quietly behind him, and when Peter spins around to hit him in the head with a pair of socks he gets the most curious expression before gagging theatrically. Which is why Peter drops his bag on his chest, leaning elbows on it to keep him pinned.

When he peeks over the edge of the carry on Markus is grinning up at him from the bed, eyes all crinkled up at the corners. "Good luck, Foppa."

He taps their foreheads together like they did all the time when they were young. For luck, and for ritual, and just for the proximity it gives them. "Thank you."

Markus leans up, bumping their noses together clumsily before slotting their lips together, tilting his head to provide a better angle.

There's none of that weird, heavy thing in the air this time. It feels easy and natural, a normal extension of the closeness they've always had. Maybe that's why Markus did it, because this was the moment that it became easy.

There's a lot about it that leaves Peter a little bit stunned, unexpected and just _huh_ fighting for the forefront of his thoughts. There's a moment where all of it clicks, where it very nearly makes sense, and then he loses it to the dominant thought rising out of his mind, which is _finally_.

This thing, they've had to dance around it almost from the very beginning, before they knew what this thing even _was_. Then life and hockey and adulthood took them to entirely different places and forced everything to be tabled, an unresolved negotiation where neither one of them was willing to address the terms they were trying to come to.

It was up to Markus to drop the gloves because Peter will always be too content with dancing.

"I'm sorry," he starts, eyes getting a little too big, a red flush starting on his chest and neck. "Foppa, I'm sorry I . . ."

"So Milo was right," he finds himself murmuring, a little confused and a little grateful, voice lost in the shock.

Markus stares at him for a second. "That's all you . . . Talking cryptically about your teammate is _weird_." His eyes narrow. "You don't . . . with Milan, do you?"

His mind flashes instantly, train-wreck like, to Halloween a few years ago, the time he'd managed to talk Milan into heels and a beret as his sidekick. He'd been prettier than he should be in his wife's badly applied eyeliner. " _No_." He reaches out to press his fingers against Markus's cheekbone, resting there. He's not sure who he's trying to reassure. "No, not Milan."

"Okay." Markus's fingers tangle in Peter's hair, and he's got to be crushed underneath the luggage that's making Peter arch his back in an utterly unnatural way to maintain the contact, but the heat and texture and presence of Markus is too much for him to care.

It feels a lot like inevitability.

"Don't burn down my house," he whispers.

Markus's eyes twinkle at him. "I make no promises."

It kinda pisses him off, in that way Markus has always been able to infuriate him when he puts his mind to it. He won't quit, will keep playing to the final horn and pushing the entire way like there's no such thing as injury or age or anything. He maybe takes a little of that irritation into the kiss, the way he crushes Markus underneath him and holds him there, pushing the luggage to the side so he can straddle his waist. He brackets Markus there, spine arched as he settles above him, coaxes his mouth open with nips and teases. Markus goes pliant under him, hands knotted in his hair and groaning from deep inside his chest.

" _Win_ , Foppa," Markus murmurs into his mouth when they pull apart, breathless. His cheeks are already beginning to show the signs of beard burn and the flush is beautiful. A tense part of Peter wants to pin him there, to the mattress, and follow this where it will certainly go.

But there is hockey. For the short time that's left there's only hockey.

\\\

The moments after the final game are euphoria. He's back, back on his bench, with _his_ team, surrounded by no one who isn't a friend, and he's high on it.

It's not the same as winning the game, but it's close. It's a contact high, a proxy that still leaves him shaking and vibrating, tight under his skin and as close to _back_ as he can be. It's not good, not by a long stretch, but with his team all clustered together and celebrating it's enough. It's a blessed _something_ when he had come to expect nothing, and it's so much above anything that he's had recently that it's flawless by comparison. Racing off the bench, just barely behind Adam and screaming out, he manages to forget that he's underdressed for this, that he was a spectator for those final, crucial periods.

The weight of it is enormous. He'd imagined, the first time, that it was the burden of four overtimes that had made his shoulders weak as pasta when raising the Cup, fueled only by adrenaline. Now, shivering on the ice in a jersey and jeans, unprotected by Under Armour, he realizes it has nothing at all to do with fatigue and everything to do with what it _is_ , this thing they've devoted their lives to. They're all kids in the moment, the same little ones who've chased this their whole lives, delirious with it.

It's the Stanley Cup. It's not his win, but it's his team and he's not ready to harp over semantics.

Ray can't seem to stop crying, eyes falling on Stanley and then starting fresh. It's hard to pry the Cup from his hands after the initial celebration, and after a few attempts they all give up on it, letting him clutch the Cup like a lover, lips pressed to it as Christiane sheds silent tears with him, the weight of his ambition finally sliding from her slight shoulders.

Ray's children crying with their father is probably the most beautiful thing Peter can remember.

The photographers and reporters come and go, there's washing and dressing and Peter can't bring himself to leave even though he needs to do none of that. He's no dirtier than the bench and proximity sweat can make him, fresh bruises decorating his knee from the final few seconds and Adam's grip, and he won't leave the team because they can't make him. They can keep him from the ice, but not here, and he wedges himself in like a burr, spines projecting every which way to ensure he can't be removed.

Markus makes his way in from the box after a long while, politeness keeping him from their celebration even though he's far removed from his uniform and rivalry. Peter doesn't want him to be uncomfortable but he's back with the team for this singular event and he can't leave them. He won't. And if Markus resents being dragged along and thrown into the dressing room he doesn't show it. He accepts the champagne bottle when Michele offers it, taking a deep swallow with his fist curled around the neck before passing it along, eyes sparking with genuine excitement and respect.

Unlike the others, he won't touch the Cup. No one from the team finds that odd.

The party is eternal. It's their release from a season of caution, of careful control, and they have earned the night. It's well into the next day before it winds down, children sleeping on shoulders and wives walking barefoot to their cars, heels dangling from their fingers. When Peter and Markus make it home, back to the condo and the quiet, the place Peter's felt equal parts trapped and protected these last few weeks, it only takes a few moments for him to fall on Markus. His face is pressed into Markus's neck as Peter laughs, arms thrown over his shoulders and sagging with the relief that comes from _finally, finally_ , Ray's tears and the burn of his beard fresh on his skin.

There's no resistance when he pushes Markus against the door, closing it with their weight. He doesn't want to wait longer, the euphoria and the game have left him itchy all night, they've been apart this series and he just . . .

He wants this, and he doesn't want to wait it out anymore.

"Whoa, Foppa." Markus is laughing into his mouth, and he might be offended except for the rumbling quality of it. "Not even dinner first?"

"I just took you to a Stanley Cup dinner and everyone stared at us. That's good enough, I think." He keeps trying to push Markus's jacket off his shoulders, but the crutches are making everything a hundred times more complicated than they should be. "God dammit."

Markus works on shucking the jacket, balancing awkwardly. "Just take it easy."

"Easy? That was just the hardest thing I've ever —"

"I meant the jacket." He drops it into a graceless heap on the floor, letting it puddle at the front door.

Peter shakes his head, presses his lips to the patch of skin under his ear. "So did I."

Markus shudders against him and he grins into his neck, biting down gently. The other man gasps, and there's a strange convenience to it. So easy to slot their lips together, drink down Markus's moan with a smile and nudge, hand falling to the curve of his ass.

He wants Markus against the door, clutching to his hips. He wants to go to his knees for him.

"Peter. Peter." Markus's voice has a strained quality to it, deep and catching in his chest. He slicks their tongues together, swallows down the rest of his words before they can form. Markus still has that expression, this introspective thing that Peter doesn't really like seeing on his face. It looks too much like reflection, like careful thought, and Markus has always been the thoughtful one. He doesn't need Markus to be the thoughtful one this time. He needs to know that Markus is capable of forsaking consequence for just one second, that he's willing to let Peter pull him into the post Stanley Cup haze that's hovering over the edge of his vision and making him desperate and melancholy in the same second. Markus's fingers finally tangle in Peter's hair, and he sighs out a little as he pulls him in for a kiss.

There's something about Markus that feels very much like home. Even with the strange angles worked into it, the awkwardness of navigating with crutches, the caution that comes with stitches and rods and bandages, Markus is like going home again. The soft, broken Swedish words that make him realize how much he misses _home_ , misses Markus when he's not here with him.

He doesn't throw Markus to the bed, because for all that Markus is comparatively smaller he's still not a small man, but he nudges him back with purpose until Markus sits heavily on the edge with a laugh, resting his crutches to the side before fisting his hand in Peter's jersey and pulling him forward into the depths of the bed.

Peter feels strangely brave putting his hand on Markus's hip, burrowing under clothing to press against the skin. It's grounding, like reaching through him and down into something they share.

Markus's skin is very pale as Peter hitches the shirt up, watching the way the muscles contract and jerk under the skin as he smoothes his hand up his side. Markus's ribs hollow as he sucks in a breath and holds it, a hint of that old ticklish response. Peter can't see his heartbeat; he imagines that with a little time he could, but impatience drives him to shove the button down up and off, catching his wrists in the cuffs.

There's something hilarious about the ruffled look Markus shoots him, squirming until he can get his hands in position to properly unbutton himself. He probably shouldn't start laughing, but once he starts he can't stop, burying his face in Markus's neck and chuckling until the hands pushing at the edge of his jersey alert him that Markus has freed himself.

Markus's fingers are cold when they press into the warm skin of his torso, soft and careful, low on his waist as Peter tangles in his hair and tugs, forcing his head into better position. Markus's thumbs rub gentle circles against his hip bones, finally developing meat again after the inadvertent fast his surgery had put him through.

Peter's not ashamed of his scars; he has a lot, and they're deep but they're also proof of recovery. But he hesitates while carefully removing his jersey, watching Markus watch him with the hem knotted up in his hands. When he finally slips it off in a series of herky jerky movements designed to protect himself Markus has settled onto the pillows, head tilted curiously.

Ashamed or not, the incision's pretty fucking horrific looking. Markus's leg isn't much better, from the few times Peter's seen it when he showered. The hair's growing back, but it's patchy, and the skin just looks . . . weird, like it's —

Markus tracing the outline of the incision, careful never to touch too close, is as close to sympathy as he's going to accept, so Peter just shrugs it off and pulls Markus into a kiss, bearing him down despite the soft twinge of protest that causes. It fades away pretty fast, adrenaline bringing him back to Markus and the taste of champagne, sweet with the sting of bubbles across his tongue, pressing close until Markus is pushing against him, slow rolls of his hips that feel dizzying and unrushed, nails scratching at his scalp.

It's enough to make him forget everything except how Markus tastes, the sensation of _so new_ mingled with the familiarity of who they are, the weight of inevitability.

There's a strange similarity to their motions as they settle together because they can't afford to mash their injuries into each other in a moment of carelessness. The injuries ensure a level playing field where caution is king, and it sucks a lot because this is the night, high off the Stanley Cup, that Peter least wants to be cautious.

But Markus has none, and he has two, so maybe he owes it to him to be cautious even like this.

He settles above Markus, nips lightly at his shoulder to watch the skin redden up. Even when they were kids the littlest scratch would make Markus flush up, color high and close to the surface. Now he can really appreciate it for what it is, a bright living pink coloring over Markus's torso and making him hot to the touch. Peter kind of can't stop touching, the edges of muscle and the corded strength of them, the tension in him as he fights for some sort of friction.

When he pops the tab on Markus's slacks Markus lets out a sound that's suspiciously like a whine, a high sound of relief as he arches his back, careful to avoid putting weight on his lower leg.

It occurs to Peter this could get very complex very fast, and he doesn't much care.

It's worth it when that little tremor takes over Markus's whole body at the same moment his fingers curl around him, the way he hitches and trembles when Peter draws him out and licks his palm. It's familiar and distinctly not at the same time, the heavy weight in his palm as he curls his fingers around him and tries to get a feel for tempo and grip.

It's dry, the slick from his spit fading away quickly to friction. Markus seems okay with it, eyes half open and panting through his lips, but there's something that feels off about it to Peter. It's Markus, and he's enjoying these looks tracing over his face, the way his eyes are shaking under the thin skin of his eyelids, but it's not enough.

It's too _distant_.

There's more that he wants, now that he can have it, and this feels like a weak second. He's never taken second as acceptable in anything he's done and he won't start now. He licks at his lips, watches the way Markus's eyes flash huge and hopeful before he lowers his head to take him into his mouth.

Markus mostly tastes like sweat and skin, and the little yelp he lets out makes Peter shiver involuntarily, forces him to pull back for a moment to avoid choking himself.

Markus is laughing at him a little bit, but considering he's flushed a pretty amusing shade of red it doesn't sting like it could.

"Shut up," he finds himself mumbling, licking at his lips and jacking Markus for a few more strokes. Markus laughs back in reply, shaking his head against the pillow.

Any semblance of laughter fades away when Peter takes him into his mouth again, careful of the sharp edge of teeth as he adjusts to the sensations.

Markus is leaking into his mouth, a strange tang that has him swallowing compulsively. Too little time and too much tension isn't good preparation for _anything_ and there's something very different about Markus this way.

It's a little uncomfortable; normally he knows Markus so well.

There are a few universals, and he works down over Markus while pushing into his hand, arching his head and neck to encourage him to touch, to direct. It takes a second longer than he wants it to but Markus has always been remarkably good at picking up his silent cues. It's how their line succeeded so well, how _they_ succeeded, and before long his fingers are tangled in Peter's hair, fingers knotted in the damp strands and nudging him along.

He's very salty, leaking over Peter's tongue and painting his mouth and throat with it. It's certainly not terrible, because the taste is Markus, but he keeps swallowing to clear his mouth anyway.

Markus isn't a loud man. He's making these soft gasping sounds, chest rising and falling with big shuddering breaths, his leg hitching and jerking and unable to settle anywhere. Those little sounds have Peter shivering, a low thrill down his spine as he arches into Markus's hand until Markus nudges him down further. It's yet another step he wants Markus to take first, and when he does Peter follows the direction quickly and thoughtlessly, opening his throat completely to him and going loose and easy.

Markus's leg is too jacked for any sort of leverage, so his thrusts are a little weak and staggered, lacking any sort of force behind them; Peter's grateful for that. It gives him that control, fingers pressing into the strong muscles of his abdomen as he bobs over his lap.

Markus's hands in his hair turn to petting, light twists through the wet curls that are forming, tangling them around his knuckles. He finds himself humming happily, stroking his thumb along the planes of Markus's belly, listening to the high, pained whines rising up in his chest.

"Peter. Foppa, _fuck_ ," he gasps, voice raspy and torn. "Foppa, _Jesus_ , I. _I_."

Peter wants to swallow him down, drain him. That's why the sensation of Markus tugging at his hair, trying to draw him _up_ has him confused, a sound rumbling up his chest that makes Markus paw at his head more desperately, cursing low and urgent under his breath.

His jaw is aching and his voice rasps as he looks up at him, cheek to his hip. "Macke?"

"I just —" His fingers tighten and then release. "I want to fuck you."

A quick survey of their working parts presents the obvious problem with that plan. "We're both injured."

"I know, just . . ." Markus can't stop staring at him; it's a little addicting. " _Foppa_."

There's desperation there. "Yes."

Markus's groan is a beautiful thing, the easing of tension in his shoulders as his fingers stroke down Peter's neck.

He's very, very careful of Peter. It takes some time, some shifting, before the position becomes comfortable and their clothing is tossed haphazardly on the floor. When they finally settle it's Markus who hesitates again, fingers resting against the curve of Peter's spine in a question.

"You do have condoms, right?"

Peter resists the urge to laugh at him only because Markus's fingers are distracting. "What do you think?"

"You fought Larionov," he grumbles. "I figured I'd better check."

Markus should not be able to deadpan at him; he feels like he's failed at his job. Peter bites into his shoulder, arms twisted around his waist. "Stop being a dick." Peter rolls over, digs in his nightstand and returns, with condom and lube gripped in one hand, to throw his arm over Markus and pull him into a kiss.

"That's what you _don't_ want me to do," Markus teases.

He has a point.

The sound of the cap popping open seems suspiciously loud in the room, makes him shudder in anticipation.

"You gonna be okay?" Markus asks, fingers gleaming wetly as he hesitates, focuses in on Peter with undivided intensity.

"Don't you _dare_ start nurturing me." He settles in Markus's lap, taking in a breath so deep it strains the incision as he waits for the stretch.

Markus shrugs and murmurs a little bit of nonsense about concern, slicks a finger in and begins to stretch him carefully. It's almost too slow, the drag of it setting Peter's whole body on edge; he can't focus on anything except the expectation of relief.

Markus is careful, overly cautious as he works Peter open. Pretty much every part of his body is complaining about the tease, the sensation of _not enough_ keeping him sharp and painfully on edge, and Markus is still _so cautious_. When Markus works his fingers just right, strokes his fingertips up into that place that makes Peter moan, low and visceral like dying, he starts scrabbling at his shoulders, trying to force him to _more_. The little chuckle Markus lets out, the smug look on his face, makes Peter snarl at him.

"Don't forget I had your dick in my mouth," he rumbles, moving down on Markus's fingers. "Move, if you want that again."

"Fine, don't let me enjoy myself." Markus strokes in deep, a little smirk that Peter leans down and kisses off him.

He very graciously allows Markus to continue fingering him for another few minutes, until he's too out of breath to protest.

He comes back to himself with the sudden absence, Markus rolling the condom down over himself.

Settling together takes time and effort, Peter sinking onto him with a tremble that races through his thighs. The penetration takes adjustment, some wiggling and shifting before he settles on Markus's lap, palms flat on his belly as he takes shallow gasps to adjust. Markus leans up to kiss him, hand flat to the base of his skull and cradling his head.

He ends up panting out his nose like his horse, mouth open to Markus and tongues slicking together. It's on that kiss that he begins to move, a staggered motion that flows less smoothly than he would like as he adjusts to the feelings.

"Foppa, oh God," Markus gasps, tearing away from him to bury his face in Peter's neck. " _Fuck_."

He agrees, rolling his hips against Markus and searching out his own pleasure as well. Hands fall to his hips, directing him to move, and he complies by driving down harder, developing a rhythm between them. The pace is relaxed, almost leisurely, a steady glide that's pushing their patience but not their injuries, a slow burn.

Markus's hands skim up the long muscles of his thighs, settle on his hips and then curl around him, long fingers circling him and tugging gently in time with his motions. "Christ, _Macke_ ," is all he can get out, voice tearing as that electric heat starts to gather at the base of his spine and spread, a warm tightening all across his body.

Markus takes that as every encouragement he could ever need, speeding his strokes until Peter spills over his fist, gasping out his name in a broken loop as his body shudders and wracks.

His body goes boneless with orgasm, a soft haze over everything as he slumps over Markus. He's only distantly aware of Markus patiently working with him, switching their positions with gentle nudges and then not so gentle shoves until he has Peter sprawled under him, urging his hips up so he can get the angle right. Peter gasps, over stimulated and only able to knot his fingers behind Markus's neck as he thrusts into him, holding on and cautious not to bruise him.

His body is pretty earnestly trying for a second go of it when he feels Markus come, body going stiff with a low grunt as he slumps onto Peter, face buried in the sweat of his neck. Peter shudders through it with him, and he works his lips over Peter's throat for a moment until he's able to pull out and tie off, making Peter wince at the sudden absence.

Peter is the one who stands up to throw it away, a sudden moment of fussy cleanliness that has Markus chuckling at him, sprawled out on the bed and flushed.

The endorphins don't wear off until long after they've fallen asleep.

\\\

Waking up that morning brings a whole new set of sensations. Not the fact that Markus is curled up against him, face tucked against his shoulder, because he's been waking up to that for long enough that the novelty has worn off. The residual soreness isn't even that unusual. His incision feels more strained than usual, and there's a soft twinge as he stretches and pads to the bathroom. The air smells of sweat and Markus, and that is wonderfully new.

It's only after he comes back out that Peter hesitates at the edge of the bed, looking down and just allowing himself to wonder for a second. Markus must be feeling cold after the exertion of last night; he reaches out and curls his fingers around Peter, urging him closer with a wicked grin on his face.

The tease is what snaps him out of the soft melancholy that comes with realizing that it's over — the competition, adrenaline, the exhaustion and excitement have all come to their completion and it's done. It's a relief and an empty space all at once, the sudden achievement of the goal sinking in and leaving him a tiny bit numb to it.

The kiss isn't enough to bring that broken edge to completion, but it helps.

"Roger figured it out," Peter murmurs, nose to Markus's throat. "A long time before we did."

"We're kinda dumb sometimes, Foppa."

"I think Dan did, too."

" _Now_ you're making me feel bad."

Peter laughs, sucks in a breath as something goes sideways in him again, the stitches not yet healed.

Markus strokes over his side, absolutely gentle. "It's like. I don't know, like we're both these weird, fragile things," he murmurs quietly when he senses Peter's hesitation, thumb barely skimming the puckered edges of the incision. Peter settles between his knees, lets him adapt to it. He doesn't need to warn Markus away because he _knows_ , intimately, the delicate bond of skin, and he respects it. And Markus does adapt to the sight, lips skimming over it, so very cautious, not enough to even sting.

"We're not _fragile_ ," he scoffs, shaking his head. "It's just —"

"No, but we are. Like. When they ask me what happened to you, all I can think is just . . . _again_?" Markus coaxes Peter down onto the bed with him, tucking himself against him like all those nights they've spent this way, stuck somewhere in the middle ground.

"I can't seem to help it," he observes, yawning. "I don't do it to bother you."

"Well obviously. But it does." Markus sounds like the admission is physically painful to him.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, nosing into Markus's throat. He smells rich. "I don't want to fight. We should make up now."

Markus starts laughing, fingers skimming down his spine. "That wasn't a fight."

"I don't care, I just won the Stanley Cup. If I want make up sex we're gonna have make up sex," he threatens, arching into Markus's hand like a big cat.

Markus keeps laughing at him, but he strokes down his spine with a purpose that has Peter shivering against him, burying a grin into his shoulder. There's no way they're gonna be able to stay like this for long, but as long as he has it there's no way he's not gonna take advantage of it. They're both strung tight from the pressure of the playoffs and frustration from not playing; it's the best sex he's had in years.

Eventually they have to wander out into the actual world, right around the time the rest of the team is recovering from their world class hangovers, so no one thinks it's weird how holed up they've been. More likely they don't even notice.

The day of the parade is beautiful, sunny as hell and Denver's median spring temperature of perfect. The whole town is recovering from the party, but they all show up, cheering on the team for the last time. It feels like the end of it for Ray, and there's no doubt they're seeing him in Denver for the last time; no one wants to miss that. After the parade, that's the moment that they'll all begin to separate again, going from players to people, and when they return to the dressing room they'll see new faces and missing faces and start the work on becoming a team all over again. Right now they're still the Avalanche, and when they cluster together around the Cup for the last photos of the season they don't even try to stop grinning like lunatics.

\\\

A part of Peter had expected this to have ended by now. He's not particularly talented at long term _anything_ , and when they'd left Denver behind together he'd suspected they were leaving _them_ behind, too. It was different from a seasonal affair, it had history and a degree of permanence, but he hadn't put much faith in it following them home, either. When he closed the door to Markus's SUV after they dropped him off, waving to Lotta and the girls as they drove away, he'd kinda imagined that as the end. Not that he wanted it to be, but fighting to continue could have ruined what they did have, so he'd shrugged it off.

Their first practice back home, on the ice they grew up on, is late in June, once they've adapted to the novelty of being around their friends and family again. Normally they make sure to meet up early in the summer, but this time Peter waits until Markus has his brace off, until the doctors have cleared them both to resume their normal routines. After what seems like forever they can finally skate together, always under the watchful eye of trainers and physical therapists, and Markus seems to be getting the hang of using his leg again, the exercises ensuring he hasn't lost much of his strength. They’re both struggling their way back to peak conditioning, but it’s a process they can struggle through together.

Sometimes Niklas joins them, if he’s available, but mostly it’s just Peter and Markus, playing a strange two person game together. It's different from when they were kids due to years of separate development, but they're always able to click. He can sense a small amount of hesitation in both their movements as they get a feel for the game again, but between the two of them they're gradually working it out.

"So, Foppa," Markus starts, setting his skate to the side and starting on the laces of the other. Peter looks over, halfway into his jeans, tugging them up his legs. Markus watches him for a few seconds, then grins. "You free after this?"

He's curious, and despite himself there's a little thrill that goes down his spine at the way Markus is just _looking_. "Ya, what's the plan?"

"I was thinking of heading to your place for a nightcap?"

"It's noo —" He hesitates, then finds himself blushing just a little because _oh_. "A nightcap is easily arranged."

Something intriguing is in Markus's eyes, and when he stands after tossing his gear into his bag Peter pulls him into a rough kiss, fingers knotted in his hair. He’s grateful for the privacy of the dressing room, in the hours before it’s open to the public and they can skate together.

Markus follows him home, and moments after he unlocks the door Markus is pushing him in, cradling his face in his hands and tongue swiping across his lips. After that it's a rough stagger to the couch, pressed against each other and shedding clothes fast. They end up making out on his couch, grinding their way to the laziest orgasm Peter's ever experienced, unexpected and unrushed. Afterwards he throws their things in the wash before joining Markus in the shower, where they stay for longer than is good considering the whole water conservation thing.

"I really think. Well, if you asked my opinion, I think you should stay home this year." Markus looks up, hands tucked between his knees and skin still wet from the water.

Peter pauses in throwing his towel into the hamper, watching Markus and waiting for some sort of explanation from him. The statement feels like something from out of nowhere, for all that Markus is acting like it's perfectly normal.

"I haven't?" he finally offers, plopping himself down on the bed next to Markus.

"If you were to," he suggests, foot settling in Peter's lap. His leg has been healed for almost a month now but the caution in his movements is still there. Peter's nearly worried for him, the way his mind is still stuck in the injury. "That's what I'd tell you."

"Any particular reason?" He can feel amusement creeping into his voice and tries to hold it off.

Markus's shoulders rise in a slow shrug. "You need to heal."

"And you worry."

"And I worry."

He can't help scoffing a little bit, pride bristling. "That's for the doctors and me to decide. I'm not stupidly breakable."

Markus shrugs, smiling shyly at him. "I think you have to do what is best for you. Even if you don't want to admit you know what that is. That's where I come in. And also because you are wrong about the stupidly breakable part of that."

Peter laughs, pushing at Markus’s shoulder. There's a part of Peter that's amused at how concerned Markus still is, months down the road and showing no lasting ill effects. Peter leans in and kisses him, Markus's knee bending up toward his chest in the decreased space between them. "Macke, always looking out for my best interests."

"And who's to say? Maybe having you out next season would give us the shot we need to win the Cup," Markus murmurs into his lips, pulling him in again.

Which is typical. _Markusly_ typical. "Oh, planning on a miracle as well?"

"Miracle implies I haven't already beat you before."

"I must have missed that game."

Markus laughs, noses into his hair and winds his arms around him. "Oh, fuck you."

"You know what?" Peter stretches out, feels that glorious sensation of nothing broken or out of place. "I think that could be arranged."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to angelsaves for help with the mobility/functionality information for both the guys, without which this would be nothing but ridiculous. Massive thanks and cookies to silver spotted for the amazing beta job. All the best points of this come from her suggestions. 
> 
> Time dulls memory, so I relied on SI's commemorative Stanley Cup issue as well as what I could find in the Post for the dates, timeline, and some of the characterization. Any remaining mistakes or omissions are wholly mine, probably because I ignored good advice.
> 
> Title from Paul Simon's You're Kind.


End file.
